


Action!

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Eve is a good friend, James is a little shit, Mild Angst, Q's Name, Rivalry, Slow Build, drama school
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9486263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: Comments = life, love, and happiness





	1. In Which Quincy Meets His Classmates

“Q! Q, this way!”

“Q, over here!”

“Q, can we have your picture?”

Q smiles and allows photographers to take as many photos as they want. He can practically feel the anger and envy as blank stares bore into him from his fellows on the red carpet. But he doesn’t care. Later, he’ll allow himself to care; but right now, he is nothing but a warm, slightly awkward smile and a friendly presence. That’s all anyone wants, after all.

Later, seated at the premier, he’s startled and uneasy to find that his neighbor is his greatest rival. But his rival ignores him, and he relaxes marginally. He tells himself he does not like the smell of his rival’s cologne.

After the premier, there is more “socializing”, and then he’s finally allowed to leave. He sits back in his seat as the chauffer pulls away from the curb, and tries to breathe more steadily.

“Straight home, sir?” the chauffer asks.

“Yes, please,” Q sighs, watching the city pass, wondering how the fuck he got here.

~~~\0/~~~

_Ten Years Earlier_

Quincy was more nervous than usual, which meant he was chewing his lip again and fiddling with his watch. His laptop hung heavy on his shoulder and against his hip. His schoolbag was even heavier across his back. He wasn’t ready for this.

He’d done flawlessly at tryouts. Even though this was going to be his minor, he’d put his all into it, and been rewarded with a place. Now, he mustn’t fuck it up.

He was early, but he wasn’t the first one there. One of the other students was there already, up on the stage, pacing and muttering to himself as he read from a packet of papers. A newbie like Quincy? He didn’t look it. He was older than him by a few years, with a craggy kind of face and military-short hair. He was dressed comfortably, but his trousers were just tight enough to show off a nice perky bottom, and his t-shirt was tight across his shoulders and chest. He ignored Quincy completely.

So Quincy sat down in one of the chairs pulled up in a circle, divested himself of his bags, and pulled a book out of his schoolbag, flipping the well-worn pages to the place he hadn’t needed to mark because he knew it so well. This was his comfort-book, a manual on coding. He’d scribbled in the margins so much that it was almost impossible to read for anyone but him. He sank deep into the descriptions and instructions, creating his own rules, writing strings of impossible code in his head…

“Hey.”

Quincy looked up, blinking away green-on-black numbers. It was the student who’d been pacing, now standing in front of him with his arms crossed and a close-lipped smile on his face. Quincy frowned slightly, puzzled by the defensive posture and face.

“Um, hello,” he said carefully. Up close, the other man seemed to radiate power and threat. He made Quincy feel rather small and fragile.

“You’re Quincy, right?” the man asked.

Quincy blinked, startled. “Ah, yes, I am.”

The other stuck out his hand to shake. Quincy obliged him and repressed a wince at the too-firm pressure. They didn’t even know each other and this man was posturing. It was bewildering. “Bond. James Bond.”

“Nice to meet you,” Quincy answered politely.

Bond bared his teeth in an approximation of a grin. “So. This is your minor?” he asked casually.

Quincy was feeling more and more uncomfortable by the moment. “Yes,” he replied. “Are you majoring?”

“Yes.”

“James, stop trying to intimidate him,” snapped a woman’s voice, and Bond actually twitched, before raising his head and putting on an actual charming smile as a woman approached, her dusky face hard and exasperated. Quincy looked between them, startled.

“Eve, darling, how are—“ Bond began smoothly, but Eve cut him off sharply.

“Sod off. We both know you still hate me.” Then she turned to Quincy, face softening, and gave him a sincere smile. “Sorry about him, he’s just jealous. The director raved about you yesterday. I’m Eve.”

“Quincy,” he introduced himself, shaking her hand. Then he blinked. Jealous? Raved about? Before he could ask what she meant, she dropped into the seat next to him and asked, “What’re you reading?”

“Coding manual,” he answered, showing her the cover. “It’s very interesting. I’ve already read it about two hundred times, but now I’m actually in a coding class, it’s even more fun to fiddle with.”

Eve made a polite noise of interest. “What are you coding? Videogames?”

Q sighed sadly. “No, unfortunately. Right now I’m building my own website; it’s not live yet, but it will be in a week. Then I’ll start uploading freeware that I’ve developed at home, and if I get enough interested parties, I can start selling software that I can’t just have online, available for download.”

“What’s freeware?” Eve asked curiously.

“Programs you can download for free. Sometimes it’s games, sometimes useful things like text editors and Skype and the like.”

Quincy continued explaining his work to Eve, even as other students arrived. He didn’t notice, too wrapped up in his explanations, that Bond had quietly taken the seat on Quincy’s other side, and was listening intently. He didn’t notice that everyone else was listening, too. He didn’t even notice the teacher until he felt a hand on his shoulder, and jumped, shutting his mouth with a snap. Now he realized everyone was watching him, and a blush fill his face and neck as he looked down at his book, open in his lap.

The teacher chuckled and walked around the circle of chairs to stand at the open place near the stage. He was a moonfaced-man, thinning hair that was receding at the temples, calm and composed at all times. His title was Professor Tanner, though he preferred it when his students just called him Bill. He’d said as much when Quincy had been accepted into his class. He looked around at them all, nodded to himself, and greeted them all with, “I see we have new faces this year. How about we all introduce ourselves? Name and inane fact.”

Bond opened his mouth, but it was Eve who quickly said, “In a round, sir?”

“But of course,” Bill replied smoothly. “I’ll start. I’m Professor Tanner, but when we’re in this classroom, you will address me as Bill. I have eyes on the back of my head.” He turned to the girl sitting to his right, who took a deep breath, but introduced herself without a single quaver in her voice.

“I’m Sam. I can’t sing, but I’ve got a good ear.”

“I’m Jerry. I did tap-dance in primary school.”

“I’m Jessica…”

And so it continued, up until Eve said, “I’m Eve, and I’m an excellent listener.” Then everyone looked to Quincy, who flushed again, almost painfully.

“I-I’m Quincy,” he muttered, smoothing his shaking fingers over the cover of his book, “And I’m only here because my father is a director and wants me to go into the industry.”

“Do _you_ want to go into the industry?” Bill asked, with something like sympathy.

“I don’t know yet,” Quincy answered softly, eyes fixed on his knees.

After an awkward moment, Bond cleared his throat and said, with a charming beam, “My name is James, and I’m every teacher’s nightmare.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” someone muttered. Bond looked pleased.

The introductions continued. There were twenty people in this class, and Quincy felt safe in their midst. Not joyful and confident, as he was in Boothroyd’s class, but safe. That was good. And everyone was exceedingly friendly, and respectful of his shyness, as they began the first “game”.

“We’re going to play Who’s Line,” Bill announced, to the cheers and applause of the whole class (minus Quincy). “First is Scenes From A Hat. Everyone, write down a scene and pop it in here.” He set an old bowler hat on a stool in the middle of the circle of chairs, passed out little pieces of paper, and stood back, watching them all—but especially Quincy and Bond. His face was thoughtful, calculating. Quincy watched back covertly, nervous for some reason, as he wrote the first funny situation he could think of. He was the first to stand and walk to the hat, dropping his paper in before plodding back to his seat.

Bond was next, standing and passing Quincy on the way to the hat. He purposefully bumped Quincy’s shoulder, making him stumble two steps, but he moved back to his seat without saying or doing anything. Quincy was used to bullying. It saddened him that he would face it here, at university, where they were all supposed to be adults; but he also understood a little. Bond didn’t want Quincy getting comfortable, didn’t want him to be competition; well, Quincy would try his best not to be. He didn’t want to stick out. He was only doing this for his father, after all.

The new students were allowed to sit out the first rounds, to see how the older ones worked. Unsurprisingly, Eve and James were tied for funniest; neither were afraid to be silly, but both were capable of dry humor that certainly set Quincy chuckling, even if no one else seemed sure.

Then Bill said, “Alright, new kids next.”

Quincy froze in his seat, smile vanishing. He’d never been funny, could never be funny; he was Macbeth, he was ‘Night Mother, he was something a million miles away from “funny”. Father had always said that Quincy was a more believable King Lear than Puck. Quincy had over-analyzed that description for years. But now…

Eve nudged him with her elbow. “You’re not even going to try?” she murmured sympathetically.

Quincy shook his head.

Eve looped her arm with his and smiled as he stared at her. “That’s alright. We’ll get you there, love.”

~

Quincy returned home and was immediately cornered by the housekeeper, Mrs. Brown.

“Your father wants you in his study, now,” she ordered briskly, shooing him up the stairs. Quincy allowed himself to be shooed, sighing inwardly. Father would want to know how the first day of class had gone. Well, Quincy wasn’t going to tell him, not the truth, at least. Some things were better left unsaid.

As always, as he stepped into the doorway of the study, he found himself contrasting himself and his father. Father was broad and tall, gone to seed but still powerful, with mousey brown hair cut short and eyes the same stormy-green color as Quincy’s. Quincy had inherited his mother’s slim build and riotous dark hair. Sometimes he wondered if Father hated him for looking so much like Mother.

“Ah, Quincy,” Father greeted him without raising his head from his latest masterpiece. “Glad you could come. How was your day?”

“Fine,” Quincy answered, waiting to be allowed to sit. Eventually Father waved at the single chair in front of his desk, and Quincy took his seat. “We did improv today,” he offered tentatively.

Father snorted. “Improv is for comedians, not actors,” he said, in a familiar lecturing tone. But before Quincy’s heart could sink too far, Father’s eyes snapped up, and he asked, “Did you meet anyone interesting?”

“Yes. I met Eve Monepenny; she’s very kind, and an excellent actor.” Quincy relaxed a little, thinking of his new friends. “And Rania Cooper. She said to just call her R. She’s top of the class in Intro.”

“In- what?”

“Intro. Introduction to Computer Sciences and Programming. Professor Boothroyd is already talking about finding us higher-level work.” Quincy practically beamed at his father, who frowned forebodingly.

“I still don’t approve of sciences and arts being in the same building,” he grumbled, “But Olivia is the greatest chancellor in the UK. She would never muddle the two together. Now.” Father laid down his pen and sat back in his chair, peering at Quincy intensely over his steepled fingers. “Have you met a James Bond?”

Quincy sighed quietly. “Yes, Father, I have.”

“What do you think of him?”

“He’s… a very good actor,” Quincy answered slowly, choosing his words with care. “He has a strong presence, and he uses it to good effect. He can be funny. I have yet to see him in a dramatic or tragic role, but I suspect he’d be good at those, too.”

“And?” Father prodded.

Quincy fought a grimace. “He’s a bully, Father,” he admitted. “He tried to intimidate me the moment he saw me. Eve said he’s jealous, but I doubt he really is. I think he just thinks I’m easy prey.”

“When are you going to prove him wrong?”

Quincy bit his tongue and held in an exasperated ‘Never’. “When I can,” he replied carefully.

Father looked inordinately pleased. “Good. Now run along and get ready for supper. We are going to see an opera, my boy.”

~

Quincy thought that, all in all, it could be worse.

Bond continued to bully and intimidate him—or, at least he tried. Quincy merely brushed him off as insignificant. He knew this was dangerous, but it was easier than retaliating. Oh, he could easily ruin Bond’s life via electronics; but he wasn’t feeling quite that petty. Yet.

Eve and Rania continued to prove themselves excellent friends. They sat with Quincy at lunch when they all managed to make it to the cafeteria on time, and the three of them had engaging, meaningful conversations. Quincy thought they must secretly see him as rather pathetic; but he didn’t feel any sting of resentment. He welcomed Rania’s motherly ways and Eve’s bright warmth. They were a balm on his poor scraped soul.

Okay, so maybe he’d been reading too many old plays again lately.

But he did feel a little… tired. He had other classes, but no friends in them. As the days turned to weeks, he began to notice jealousy among his classmates. He was the best in every class—except acting. And that was because he just did not want to compete with Bond.

Bond was… exhausting. He was charismatic, charming, always ready with a smile and a compliment. But he hogged the spotlight, shoved people out of the way with sheer egotism, and basically _demanded_ all eyes on him almost constantly. He was a diva, and he seemed to leech the energy right out of Quincy, leaving him feeling worn and tired.

But Quincy was an actor, too, and his large ego was earned. So he covered the tiredness with poise, propped himself up with pride. And it worked. No one guessed he was so bone-tired that it hurt.

~

The first time he recited a monologue, there was dead silence from his classmates. He looked around, surprised, as he slipped out of the role he’d taken on. Did… did he do something wrong? They were all staring at him as if stunned; except for Bill, who grinned, and clapped. After a beat, everyone started clapping, and Quincy flushed.

“That was excellent, Quincy,” Bill told him with a smile. “How would you like to be Hamlet in our first production?”

“Me?” Quincy snorted, quietly. “No, thank you. Make Bond do it.”

“I’d be happy to,” Bond added smoothly, smiling as many people glared at him. Quincy blinked; why were they glaring? Wasn’t Bond the best?

“No, Bond is going to play King Claudius,” Bill decided, making everyone stare at _him_ now. He smiled at Bond’s outraged look. “You haven’t played the villain in a while, James. It’ll be good for you. Now, Quincy. What about Horatio? Would you be comfortable playing him?”

“I… I suppose,” Quincy answered, fighting the urge to fidget. He’d thought that, here, in a school where everyone was exceptional, he would just be another face in the crowd; but apparently not. This was… saddening. But Horatio was a good character. Quincy wouldn’t mind playing him.

“Good, that’s those two decided. Who wants to be Hamlet?”

~

“I’m going to bring some friends to your first production.”

Quincy froze with his fork in his mouth, eyes going wide. Slowly, he removed the utensil and chewed his mouthful of greens until he could swallow and say evenly, “What kind of friends?”

“The heads of certain theatre groups.” Father watched Quincy closely from his place at the head of the ridiculously long table. Quincy said nothing. “I told them about you, and how well you’re doing. They said they’re not going to pick anyone on their first year…”

Quincy relaxed a little.

“…But if you’re good enough, they’ll consider you next year.”

Quincy stiffened again. “Father,” he began carefully, “I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t want to be in theatre. I want to be in technology.”

“Nonsense,” Father replied briskly, “You just haven’t given it a chance yet.”

I have given it chances, Quincy thought. I gave it chances all through secondary school. I _don’t like it_.

But he could not say that now. Father would just say he was being petulant. So Quincy continued eating, though his dinner now tasted like ash and pond slime.

“Finish quickly, Quincy. We’re going to see _Faust_ tonight.”

Father may be a playwright and director of such, but he had a taste for opera. Quincy himself didn’t mind it, but he did get tired of it occasionally. But he finished his dinner, and went upstairs to his room to choose a suit that would not disgrace Father’s private box, and hoped Father would let him bring a book.

Father did not let him bring a book. They drove the Rolls Royce that night—or, rather, the chauffer did—and Quincy stared out the window trying to feel the same sort of smugness his father showed when they drove their best car. But he couldn’t. All he felt was pity for the people out in the rain.

The opera house was crowded, as usual. Quincy kept close to Father, and tried not to let the noise get to him—

“Quincy!”

He snapped around at the familiar voice, and felt himself grin. “Eve!” he responded, and darted through the crowd, leaving Father behind, to crash into Eve and hug her tightly. She returned the favor, laughing.

“Quincy, love, thank god you’re here,” she sighed when they let go of each other, her hand still on Quincy’s arm while his remained on her waist. “I can’t take much more of this double-date. Bond’s going to drive me mad.”

“Double-date?” Quincy repeated, smile faltering. He’d known he had a crush on Eve, but it was just a small one. “Bond’s here, too?”

“Oh, don’t look so terrified, I gave him the slip,” Eve laughed, swatting Quincy’s shoulder lightly. “Yes, it was me, R, Bond, and Joseph. Joseph invited Bond because he was nervous, and R invited _me_ because she thinks I’ll know all the words.” Eve rolled her eyes and Quincy’s smile shored up again. Eve sang like an angel, but she could only speak English and Norwegian. “Do you have a date, too?”

“No, I’m here with my father. He’s a big fan of opera.” Quincy thought of something, and blurted recklessly, “Would you like to join us in our box?”

“No, sorry, love,” Eve sighed, “I promised R I’d stick with her. Unless there’s room in your box for two more.”

“There’s plenty of room. Father has a private box.”

Eve stared at him. Then she asked, “How famous is your father?”

“Um…”

“Quincy!” Father approached, looking very, very annoyed. “I told you not to run off like that! Who is this?”

“Father, this is Eve Moneypenny,” Quincy introduced, only a little stiffly. “Eve, this is my father, George Elmsley.”

Eve dropped a perfect curtsey, despite her dress being fairly form-fitting. “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” she greeted Father smoothly with a charming smile.

Father eyed her, mollified. Then he smiled back. “Moneypenny, eh? I knew a Moneypenny when I was in school. Dashed good cricket player. He went into law, I believe.”

“That would be my uncle, then,” Eve replied confidently. “My papa always said he should go into professional cricket, but Uncle prefers his firm.”

“Father, may Eve and Rania sit with us?” Quincy asked, and refused to quail under Father’s stern look. “There’s room in the box, isn’t there?”

“There is,” Father replied, then smiled again. “Well, go along, both of you, and find your friend. Come straight up when you do. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

“Thank you, Father.” Quincy beamed at him, and he and Eve scampered off to find Rania, Joseph, and Bond.

The three of them were already in their seats, and Joseph was rather put-out that Rania was invited up, but not him. Outwardly, Bond looked like he didn’t care; but Quincy could feel the anger radiating off him in waves. Quincy only looked him in the eye once, and the hate there made him want to run.

But he didn’t. He simply escorted Rania and Eve up to the box, chattering with them like three little song-birds. Rania was introduced to Father, who seemed to approve of her despite her chosen field of study, and the four of them got comfortable as the lights went down.

 _Faust_ was by no means Quincy’s favorite, but he liked it well enough to listen. He spoke the language, and provided quiet translations to Eve and Rania. Father didn’t shush him.

When the interval came ‘round, Father got up to leave the box—and someone knocked on the door.

Quincy knew who it was immediately, and his heart sank.

“Excuse me, sir,” Joseph’s voice said nervously, and Rania and Eve whipped around, “But I—that is, Rania and I, we came together, and I’ve still got her ticket, and—well, can I talk to her for a moment?”

Rania stood immediately and went to the door. Father rumbled, “And who are _you_?”

“Bond, James Bond,” Bond introduced himself smoothly. “I’m Eve’s date.”

“Like hell you are,” Eve muttered, facing front again. Then she noticed Quincy’s intense focus on the stage, and put her hand on his arm. “Quincy? Love, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Quincy answered quietly. “I just…”

It was too late. Father had already (grudgingly) let the boys in. Joseph ruffled Quincy’s hair in greeting, but Bond kept to himself, choosing the seat closest to the door. Quincy wondered at that.

Joseph and Rania interacted awkwardly, but with a sincere mutual affection. They were only awkward because there were people around. Quincy was happy for them.

“I have to use the WC,” he announced, mostly to Father and Eve, and stood, straightening his jacket a little self-consciously as he left the box.

The ebb and flow of humanity in the hall carried him to the loos easily. He had to wait, but that was alright; he’d really just needed to stretch his legs, and he wasn’t that urgent. He washed his hands, too, because his nanny had raised him correctly.

Stepping out of the restroom, he almost ran into Bond.

“Excuse me,” Quincy said politely, and made to pass him; but Bond grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side, against the wall. Quincy flinched at the initial contact—but Bond did not squeeze, did not yank, did not hurt him at all. It was just firm, unyielding pressure.

“Why didn’t you say Elmsley was your father?!” he hissed, looking angry and—Quincy did a double take. Angry and _desperate_?

“Because it doesn’t matter,” Quincy answered tartly. “He’s just a playwright.”

“’Just’ a playwright?” Bond snorted, and yes, he was definitely desperate. “Look, Quincy—I’m sorry. About the way I’ve been acting towards you. It wasn’t fair or right of me.”

“You want me to put in a good word for you,” Quincy deduced flatly.

Bond grimaced, but said nothing. His hand was still on Quincy’s arm; Quincy stepped back and the hand fell away.

“Why?”

“Because…” Bond glanced around, then sighed heavily and muttered, “Because I really need help. I’ve been auditioning for three years and no one will take me. I need help breaking into acting.”

“Well, you won’t get it by being such a bully and a diva,” popped out of Quincy’s mouth before he could stop it. Bond stared at him, stunned. “Oh don’t look at me like that when it’s true! You just admitted yourself to bullying me, and everyone can tell you’re too prideful for your own good. You always want the spotlight, and you’ll do anything to keep it. Father told me he never chooses people like you, people who want to start at the top; you’re going to have to knock yourself down a few pegs before anyone even _thinks_ of hiring you. Every theatre already has a leading man; you don’t get to be him without working for it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to get back before the show starts again.”

And Quincy left Bond, walking more confidently than he had in a long time. It always felt good to tell the truth.

Of course, Bond was going to get him for speaking his mind; but that would come later. For now, Quincy slipped into the box and settled between Eve and Rania again, and felt more relaxed and content than he had in a long time.

Bond returned just as the curtain was lifting. Quincy ignored him. It seemed… politic.

When _Faust_ ended, they all gathered themselves to face the crush of people once more. Eve, Rania, Joseph, and Quincy stuck together, all talking excitedly about the opera, with Quincy reciting and translating the parts the others felt were most important. He really had seen it many, many times.

He didn’t even notice Father and Bond talking quietly as they followed the four younger students. He was too busy being overjoyed to share something so integral to his life with his friends.

Somehow, they waved down a taxi. Rania and Joseph got in quickly; Eve hugged Quincy and kissed his cheek before sliding in. And Bond followed, looking thoughtful. He deliberately ignored Quincy, who didn’t really mind. Then they were gone, and Father was leading the way to where their chauffer would pick them up.

“About that Bond boy…” Father began. Quincy sighed silently and clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m not sure he’s as much of a diva as you say.”

“Because he’s a _charming_ diva,” Quincy pointed out wearily. “He _wants_ you to think he’s just a bloke with talent, not a prideful little shit.”

“What did I say about swearing in public?”

“Sorry, Father.”

They climbed into the Royce, which pulled away from the sidewalk smoothly. Father continued, “Nevertheless, I’m considering asking my friends to look out for him, too. Maybe if I get him out of the way quickly enough, you’ll shine brighter.”

Not the news Quincy was hoping for, but good enough. It would have to be.

~

“Stop fidgeting!”

“Sorry, Mrs. Brown,” Quincy sighed, trying to stand straight and still. “I’m just—nervous.”

“You’ve no reason to be. You’ll steal the show, you’ll see,” Mrs. Brown said comfortably, as she worked on fitting his costume.

Mrs. Brown and Maria, the housemaid, had insisted on being the ones to fit his costumes, even going so far as to come to the school and talk to the costume department about it. “It’s no reflection on you, my dears,” Mrs. Brown had said, “But I was apprenticed to a seamstress before I became a maid, and I’ve always made Quincy’s costumes for him, ever since primary school.”

“That’ll be one less thing to worry about, then!” the head costumer, Mr. Richardson, had replied cheerfully.

So instead of being fitted with the rest of his class, Quincy was tucked in the corner being fussed over by those in his father’s employ. He could see the other boys talking to each other and the costume department, excited and just as fidgety as him; but he couldn’t talk to them over this distance. So he kept his eyes down and went over his lines in his head.

“There! Off with the shirt, now, love,” Mrs. Brown ordered crisply, and helped Quincy wriggle out of it without sticking himself with pins. Maria was humming as she sewed the trousers, period-appropriate and influenced by the medieval Danish styles. Quincy was going to have the most historically accurate costumes of the lot—which was going to stand out. But Father had demanded nothing less, and Quincy had accepted the decree, miserably.

Jerry wandered over, still in jeans topped with a medieval-style shirt. “You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb,” he commented bluntly.

“I know,” Quincy sighed.

“But you will also be the best dressed,” Mrs. Brown assured him firmly, and gazed sternly at Jerry. “Whereas you, young man, appear to have an unraveling sleeve.”

“Is it? Bloody—! Thank you, ma’am.” And Jerry turned and ran back to the group of costumers, showing them the seam that was coming undone.

Quincy put on his button-up and cardigan again, and sat down on a folding chair to watch Maria and Mrs. Brown work. He was tired. The past week had been hectic, and he wanted to sit in peace and quiet. Maria gently hummed a love-song that was popular that week, and Mrs. Brown worked silently.

Finally, it was time to leave. Mrs. Brown and Maria bundled up Quincy’s costume to take home and work on, and Quincy joined his fellows in front of the stage.

The girls’ fitting always took longer—“Because girls need extra work in the chest area,” one of the boys had snorted—but today they were out only a minute after the boys. Eve immediately went to Quincy and tucked her arm through his.

“What’s this I hear about yours being the most accurate costume?” she asked jovially.

Quincy sighed. “My father wants me to stand out,” he replied glumly, far more willing to talk to her than to his fellow men. “He said that, even if I’m not the protagonist, I should at least dress like one.”

Eve made a sympathetic noise and patted his hand. “Maybe he’ll see James act and change his mind about you needing to be in the spotlight,” she suggested.

Quincy snorted. “I doubt it. But thank you. I appreciate it.”

Bill appeared on the stage, and clapped twice sharply to get everyone’s attention. “Alright, everybody,” he called, “Time for our first rehearsal. Get to your places!”

There was a rush as everyone hurried up the steps and to the wings. Quincy, out of necessity, was pushed near the front, as the fourth person to enter the stage. His hands were shaking. He clenched them at his sides. This always happened; something about being in the wings made him nervous and trembling, but when he stepped out under the lights…

The two men playing the guards did very well, and then it was Jerry and Quincy’s turn. He took a breath, stepped out—

—and felt every iota of himself float away, leaving nothing but Horatio behind.

This… this was what made him different. He slid so seamlessly into his roles, released his own thoughts and inhibitions so completely, that he couldn’t help putting his heart and soul into the part he played. He _was_ Horatio, feeling slight suspicion at the guards’ claims, a sudden start of fear at the ghost, relaying stories of the dead king, trying to speak to the ghost and deciding that perhaps his friend Prince Hamlet would have better luck…

When he exited the stage, however, Horatio dissipated, leaving Quincy in his wake. Between blink and blink, he was himself again.

Again, the others were staring at him. He ignored the stares, instead sitting on an upended crate and watching those on stage. Aaron was a decent Hamlet; his dark face tended to brood naturally, and his bitterness was palpable. But Bond seemed to overwhelm him as King Claudius, the force of his personality far too strong. Quincy frowned. It felt like Bond was actually trying to compensate for something.

But Quincy was not the director, Bill was. And Bill stopped the whole proceeding (at a good point between breath and breath) to tell Bond sternly, “You’re trying too hard. Again.”

“Sorry, Bill,” Bond replied, not in the least bit sorry.

Bill sighed. “Alright, from the beginning of this scene.”

Bond was better the second time ‘round; and when it came Quincy’s time again, he blinked and fit back into Horatio’s skin.

Bill never called for Quincy to correct himself, which was odd, and made him uneasy. He didn’t call for anyone in Quincy’s scenes to correct themselves, either. That made him truly nervous.

And then came the first scene where Horatio and Claudius were in the same room, and something fierce and angry raised its head in Horatio’s—Quincy’s—stomach. Bond was trying to take over again, and Quincy—Horatio—fought to stay in character. He managed, barely.

Suddenly, Bill called a halt. “Quincy, come here a moment,” Bill ordered.

Puzzled, Quincy slid back into his own skin and made his way across the stage to stand at the edge, then sat cross-legged so he was only a little higher up than Bill. “What’d I do?” he asked, nervously, softly.

“You’re…” Bill ran his hand over his hair and grimaced. “The focus should be on Hamlet and Claudius. Are you sure you want to be Horatio? Because you’re not doing a very good job of staying in the background.”

“Oh.” Quincy flushed and fiddled with his watch. “I… um. I’m sorry, Bill. I’ll try harder not to… I’ll try to stay in the back. It’s just… he’s being too… too…”

“He’s overcompensating because he’s jealous of you,” Bill finished dryly, but quietly, so no one else could hear.

Quincy stared at him. “That can’t be it,” he said finally, at the same volume. “Why would he be?”

“Because you’re better than him.” Bill grinned at Quincy’s dumbstruck look. “Now go on up there and show them how to be a background character.”

Meekly, Quincy obliged.

~

“I’m coming to rehearsal with you tomorrow,” Quincy’s father announced the next night.

Quincy was too tired to argue. “Alright,” he said instead.

~

“Who’s that?”

“Quincy’s dad.”

“Why is _he_ here?”

“Does it matter?”

“Ohhh, I’m not ready for an audience!”

Quincy ignored the whispers, pacing a little with nerves. Father had insisted on sticking his nose into every facet of work, from the costumes to the scenery to the lighting; and now he was talking with Bill, comparing notes or whatever directors did. Eve was calming rumors, and Bond was being unusually quiet.

In fact, just as Quincy noticed this, Bond detached from the group he was talking to and walked over to Quincy.

“So why _is_ he here?” Bond asked, and perhaps he was a bit nervous and perhaps not.

“No idea,” Quincy answered glumly. “He just decided he was going to come and watch.”

Bond nodded. “Maybe—“ he began, then cut himself off and looked away for a moment. Then he turned back to Quincy and muttered, “I promise not to over-compensate.”

Quincy stared at him.

Bond grimaced. “It’s really not fair, you know, when you do that,” he snapped.

“Do what?” Quincy asked, bewildered.

“When you look at me like that!” Bond huffed as Q began to frown. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. But I still promise.” And he turned on his heel and stomped away.

Quincy shook his head and went back to pacing, fiddling with his watch.

“Alright, everyone, places!”

Quincy hurried to his place, wondering what his father would think of Bond’s Claudius.

They ran smoothly, with very little fuss and no need to stop and repeat a scene or phrase. Quincy was better at fading into the background, now; he just had to force himself to remember who he was. He glanced past the footlights, and saw his father seated in the front row, smiling smugly. Oh no.

When they finished, Father stood and clapped, slow and appreciative, beaming at them all. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Absolutely wonderful! I could find places for all of you. How many of you are considering acting as a career? Only half of you? Well, I suppose we can’t all be actors, there wouldn’t be enough people for an audience! Professor Tanner, may I bring some friends next Tuesday?”

“Ah—yes, of course, sir,” Bill answered, surprised. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Enjoyed it? I loved it!” Father’s smile was a bit too smug, his voice a bit too hearty. Quincy narrowed his eyes. What was he planning?

~

On Tuesday, Father brought the heads of three of the most famous theatre companies in the United Kingdom. No one knew their faces, and they did not give their names; but Quincy recognized them, and he felt sick. Father really was planning on thinning the ranks, wasn’t he.

Bill knew who they were, of course. But he didn’t make a big deal out of it. He shook their hands, murmured hellos, smiled politely, and got on with his work.

“Places!”

The costumes had been finished yesterday. Everyone was in costume, and Quincy hated his with a passion; it stood out far too much, in that it was obviously superior. But there was no time for that. He took several deep breaths to calm himself, and stepped out right on cue.

It was almost boring, at this point; but he always challenged himself to find newer, better ways to speak, to move, to elicit emotions. So he did not fall into that trap. And he remembered when to defer and when to take the stage.

And at the end, all four guests applauded.

“You were right, George,” said one of them, voice dripping with satisfaction. “They’re all excellent. Especially your son.”

Quincy flushed and looked down, unable to ignore the way his fellow actors swiveled their heads to look at him. He could _feel_ the jealousy. It made him want to disappear into the floorboards. He went to fiddle with his watch—but he’d taken it off. So he fiddled with his cuffs, unobtrusively.

“They have an excellent teacher,” Father replied, nodding towards Bill, who smiled and bowed a little.

“Thank you, sir. Alright everyone, go take off your costumes and come back; I’d like to talk to you all about something.”

Quincy trotted to the wings along with his classmates, and was almost able to ignore the looks he kept getting.

“Why were they all watching _you_?” Jessica demanded, looking sullen.

“Because they’ve been bribed, probably,” Quincy answered bluntly, not looking at her. He could tell several people were suddenly very interested. “Father… likes to hear praise. He’ll do anything to get it.”

“But they were praising _you_ ,” Sam pointed out innocently. “Why would he bribe them to praise _you_?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Come on, back off a little.” Eve slipped her arm through Quincy’s, and he relaxed a small amount. “It’s not Quincy’s fault his dad’s a prick.”

Quincy promised himself to buy Eve some jewelry at the next opportunity. Women liked jewelry, didn’t they? And Eve had quite a collection of necklaces. Once again he cursed his sexual orientation, that made him uninterested in finding out much about women in general. But yes, Eve would probably appreciate a pretty necklace. He should get something for Rania as well, to thank her for her friendship and help.

Then they had to part ways, and retreat to the dressing rooms to put their clothes back on.

No one would talk to Quincy. That was alright. He didn’t want to talk anyway. He wanted to be miserable on his own.


	2. In Which The Plot Picks Up Pace

“Mr. Elmsley?”

George Elmsley turned and raised his eyebrow at James, who smiled. “Hello again. Mr. Elmsley, I was just wondering—“

“If I could introduce you?” Elmsley interrupted.

James hesitated, then nodded, smile slipping.

“I’m afraid not.” Elmsley looked James up and down and smiled back, condescendingly. “You have a ways to go before I put you on my recommendations list.”

James bristled, but forced himself to speak calmly. “And what requirements are there for getting on your list?”

“You have to be able to act, for one thing.”

James’ hands clenched into fists at his side, and he bit his tongue to stop it from asking if Elmsley really wanted James to deck him. No, he’s mastered the art of self-restraint. He said politely, “I will keep that in mind.”

“See that you do.” Elmsley nodded to him, and walked away.

~

“Father, you didn’t have to be so harsh,” Quincy protested weakly, as they passed through the doors out into the nighttime.

“Bah. He’s a ham. I hope he never gets a job acting. And I don’t care if Olivia is angry with me over that.”

Quincy was silent a moment. Then he said slowly, “Father, you knew his name. On the first day, when you asked me how it went, you knew his name. How?”

“Because Olivia told me about him.” Father glanced at Quincy and away, narrowing his eyes as he looked for the car. “She said he was promising, that I should look out for him. I don’t know why. I thought she had better taste. Ah, there’s Geoffrey.”

Quincy was thoughtful and quiet all the way home.

~

The time flew by, and then it was the day of the performance.

The seats were sold out. There were so many people they stood along the walls, cramped and grumbling. Quincy only got one look before Eve towed him away to the backstage.

Quincy didn’t need much makeup; Horatio was a young man, but not a child. The only “problem” was his hair.

“It just won’t stay in place!” Hilda the hairdresser huffed, reaching for the hair gel. “I don’t think even this will help.”

“Actually, I’m allergic to most hair gels,” Quincy informed her apologetically. “Can’t we just leave it?”

“No. It has to be under control, or it’ll distract from your pretty face,” Hilda told him, ignoring his surprise and the blush that turned his face and neck a fetching shade of pink.

Somehow she got his hair more-or-less organized without the use of gel, though Quincy was sure he’d inhaled too much hairspray for it to be healthy. Then it was time to get ready to go on stage, and Quincy had no time to fret over his appearance.

~

By the time the curtain came down for the final time, Quincy was ready to fall over. And then when they all went backstage, ready to peel off their costumes and wipe off their makeup, there was a veritable explosion of flowers in the green room. Quincy assumed most of them were for Bond and the ladies. He was just about to leave for the loo (he’d been holding it too long) when Aaron laughed and called out, “Quincy, mate, you’ve got _roses_!”

Quincy froze in the doorway, blood draining from his face. Before he could do more than turn, Jessica added, “They’re secondhand, too! Someone crossed off the original name and wrote yours in.”

Quincy plodded over, dreading what he would see. Everyone crowded around as Jessica handed Quincy the card, and Aaron, the roses.

“To the brightest star on stage this century,” Quincy read out, “A paltry offering of undying loyalty.” He frowned at the scribble on the back of the card, peering closely at it… christ, these contact lenses were shit. “I need my glasses to be sure, but I think it starts with a J-a.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Quincy felt absolutely horrid. So he took the roses and held them out to Bond, saying, “So apparently these are yours.”

Bond gave a thin sort of smile. “Apparently not,” he replied.

Quincy frowned. “Don’t you want them?” he asked, puzzled. “Whoever sent them—“

“Obviously changed their mind.” Bond pushed Quincy’s hand away, gently. “Keep them.” And he walked out of the room.

Quincy stared at the roses. Father was going to be insufferable when he found out.

Eve hooked her arm through Quincy’s. “They’re very pretty,” she commented, perhaps trying for a light tone.

“Father’s going to gloat, I know it,” Quincy replied miserably, forgetting that the others were still standing around him. “And I hate roses.” He tossed the bouquet down on the table, slipped free of Eve, and headed for the loo.

He was just finishing up when Bond entered. He felt compelled to say something… but what could he say? So he just washed his hands and made to leave, when he realized Bond was still standing in front of the door.

“If this is about the flowers…” Quincy began nervously.

“It’s nothing to do with the bloody flowers!” Bond snapped, making Quincy jump. “It’s to do with you!”

“Me?”

“Yes!” Bond took a deep breath, then continued, low and intense, staring hard at Quincy, “Do you know how fucking _impossible_ it is? _I_ was the golden boy. _I_ was the best. Then _you_ waltz in, with your perfect grades and green eyes and ugly cardigans, and ruin _everything_. And I can’t even be angry with you, because you’re too bloody _faultless_!”

Quincy stared, wide-eyed, confused by this outpouring of words and the contrasting tones. “What are you saying?” he asked carefully.

“I’m saying—“

The door opened. Bond cut himself off.

“Am I interrupting?” Aaron asked delicately, eyes darting between them.

“No.” Bond gave a charming smile and slipped out past him.

Quincy was even more confused, now. He still felt bad, too. Then suddenly everything disappeared under a flush of anger; it wasn’t his fault! None of that was his fault! He’d been actively trying _not_ to take the spotlight from Bond! It was _not_ Quincy’s fault that everyone else expected too much from him.

“Mate, you alright?” Aaron asked worriedly.

Quincy blinked, and the anger faded. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, I’m fine.”

~

Father was, indeed, smug about the roses. He made Quincy take them home, and gave a long speech about how this was the first step towards stardom. Quincy heard him out, politely declined dinner, and went up to his room to sit on the bed, head in his hands, exhausted.

Then his mobile rang.

He picked it up automatically. “Hello?”

“Q, love!” Eve’s voice answered, laughing, “Where are you, we’re waiting outside!”

“You are? Oh. OH.” Quincy scrambled to put on a jacket and grab his wallet and keys, keeping his mobile to his ears. “Bloody hell, I forgot! I’ll be right down, give me a minute.”

“Okay, but you only get one!”

Eve rang off, and Quincy found himself smiling.

“Where are you going?” Mrs. Brown asked, as Quincy hurtled past her to the hall to pull on his shoes.

“Drinks with the others,” he explained in a rush, “And they’re waiting outside. Good night, Mrs. Brown!”

There was an honest-to-god limousine waiting outside, directly in front of the house; Quincy hopped down the steps and trotted over, opening the door and sidling in, to be met with cheers from six of his fellows.

“Glad you could make it!” Jessica exclaimed, laughing as Eve pulled Quincy into a tight hug. They were all obviously a little tipsy. “We’re going to the bar next to the theatre.”

“Alright,” Quincy replied, excited in a strange new way. It fizzed in his belly, made him warm all over. He didn’t know what it was, but it was pleasant.

And Bond wasn’t there. That was a plus.

The limousine ejected them at the theatre, and the seven of them entered the bar, talking and laughing. Quincy looked around curiously; he’d never been here. It was almost empty, except for a few theatre employees, who toasted the actors and called their congratulations on a job well done. The walls were covered with old playbills and programs, signed paraphernalia, and pictures of leading lights. There was a smoky quality to the air, yet no one was smoking, and there was no fire in the enormous fireplace. As Eve sat him at a table and went to order their drinks, Quincy found himself relaxing. This… was a good place.

He was chatting animatedly with Aaron and Eve when Bond walked it. Quincy pretended not to notice.

He couldn’t pretend when Bond sat at their table, across from Quincy, and began to sip his beer casually, as if he were their friend. Quincy unconsciously tensed, but finished his thought before turning to Bond and saying, “There’s a perfectly good spot at the bar.”

Bond ignored the not-so-subtle hint to sod off.

Aaron was more blunt. “Look, James, we don’t need you sitting here judging us,” he said waspishly.

“Who said I was judging?” Bond shot back calmly. “I’m just here to drink, same as you.” His eyes locked on Quincy. “And to ask what kind of computer I should buy.”

Quincy frowned. Bond was even more puzzling when drunk. “Well… that depends what you want to do with it,” he replied slowly, eyeing Bond warily.

“Mostly just writing. I’m tired of using the library computers for writing my essays.”

Quincy nodded. “Well, you could always get a…” he rattled off a list of computers, but sighed as all three of his tablemates gave him blank looks. “Basically, get a desktop with lots of memory, and also get a good, sturdy keyboard. I suggest a computer with Microsoft Word, it’s easy to learn.” He narrowed his eyes at Bond thoughtfully. “Maybe get a flash drive, so you can bring files with you and don’t have to rely on one computer,” he added.

“Why would I need a sturdy keyboard?”

“Because you do hunt-and-peck instead of proper typing, and that’s bad for keyboards,” Quincy told him tartly. “Your tutor told me.”

Bond looked like he wanted to be angry… but instead he smiled, reluctantly. “Typing is hard,” he complained.

“It is not,” Quincy sniffed.

“Whoa, there, boys,” Eve drawled, putting out her hands as if to hold them apart, “I think that’s plenty for now. Q, love, fetch us a cocktail, will you?”

Quincy nodded and stood, going up to the bar, ignoring Bond’s a little too sharp “Why do you call him ‘Q’?”

“Do you have cocktails?” Quincy asked the barman. “Eve prefers them.”

The barman raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling up. “We’d be a poor excuse for a bar if we didn’t, wouldn’t we?” he answered dryly, reaching under the counter. “What kind would the lady like?”

“Umm. I think she likes manhattans.”

“Comin’ right up. And for you?”

“Just cider, please.”

When the drinks were poured, he returned to the table, setting the manhattan down in front of Eve and taking his seat again. She and Bond were arguing heatedly in whispers; Quincy couldn’t quite hear them, but he caught his name. So he turned to Aaron and said, “I forgot to tell you, your performance tonight was amazing.”

Aaron grinned. “Q, I’m flattered. You were better, though. I almost believed you really were Horatio.”

Quincy flushed and shrugged. “I like his character,” he admitted, “So it was easy to play him. But I know you don’t like Hamlet, so my flattery still stands.”

“You’re too modest, Quincy. You were exceptional,” Aaron told him firmly. “I really think you should try for the lead next time. We’re doing _An Ideal Husband_ next.”

“I’m… not very good with comedy,” Quincy confessed.

“Bosh. Try anyway. You’ll be excellent.”

Bond stood suddenly and left the bar. Eve huffed, but seemed pleased under her annoyance; Quincy decided she must have won the argument. Then Eve turned back to Aaron and Quincy and smiled. “What were you two talking about?” she asked cheerfully.

“That Quincy needs to try out for the lead when we do _An Ideal Husband_ ,” Aaron answered, despite Quincy’s stifled protests. “You should as well, Eve. You’d be great.”

Eve laughed. “I just might.”

It was quite late when Father called and ordered Quincy home. He kissed Eve’s cheek, clapped Aaron on the shoulder, waved to everyone else, and left the bar, weaving only a little. He flagged down a taxi, realized he didn’t have enough money to go all the way to his door… and shrugged. He paid the driver in advance, and walked the rest of the way when he was dropped off.

The walk cleared some of the cobwebs from Quincy’s brain. His hand didn’t shake as he turned his key in the lock, and when he kicked off his shoes, he didn’t wobble. He trotted to the bathroom to fetch an aspirin and then go to bed.

Someone in Father’s study cleared their throat. He paused in his quest for medicine, then walked back and leaned in the doorway. “Yes, Father?”

Father was sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair with his hands laced over his stomach. He looked grave and disapproving. Quincy tried not to wince.

“So you went and mingled with the lesser talents,” Father observed.

“They’re not lesser _people_ just because you don’t think they have talent,” Quincy pointed out politely, barely containing a sudden surge of protective anger. These were his _friends_ his father was maligning. “They’re good people. I’d rather hang out with them than anyone else.”

The corner of Father’s mouth ticked upwards. “Even those… computer nerds?”

“Those “nerds” are going to rule the world some day, Father,” Quincy snapped, losing his temper. “Technology is the way forward. Acting is my _minor_. I’m going to work for Google when I graduate, not the RSC. And when I’ve graduated, I’m never going to act again.”

~

Quincy packed his trunk with the essentials and took it downstairs. Angry tears had tracked down his face as he folded his clothes and carefully settled them around the two computer towers he’d already fit in the trunk, but now his eyes were dry. He refused to take any of the posters and playbills decorating his walls. Now, as he stood on the step, his dearest possessions packed on his back and at his side, the anger faded, and he stared up at the dark sky. The tears had stopped, but that was because he was just… so tired. Bone-deep exhaustion mingled with bitter mourning in his chest and stomach.

Kicked out of his own house, and why? Because his father couldn’t take his son doing anything other than what he said to. And now Quincy had to find a place to stay while he searched for a flat of his own.

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

He took out his phone and dialed Eve.

“Q? What’s up?” Eve yawned when she picked up.

“Can I stay with you for a few days?” Quincy asked.

There was a moment of silence. Then Eve said, “Let me get my shoes. I’ll come pick you up.”

More tears prickled his eyes. “Thank you.”

Maria opened the door as Quincy was tucking his mobile back in his pocket. “Why are you out here?” she asked sleepily.

“Father has decided he doesn’t want a son who works at Google,” Quincy answered, and sat down on the front step to wait for Eve. Maria shuffled through the door and closed it behind her, and sat beside him, hugging her knees.

“You don’t need to wait with me,” Quincy said quietly.

“Yes I do,” Maria replied, and smiled at him. “You’re a good chiquito. He’ll change his mind, you’ll see.”

“I don’t think he will.”

“He will,” Maria repeated confidently. “You’re his only family and he loves you. He’s proud of you, Lucero.” She reached out and stroked his hair, still crackly from hairspray. “He’s just unhappy because his latest play was rejected.”

“That makes three in as many months,” Quincy murmured, allowing Maria’s gentle touch to lull him a little. He was so tired…

He didn’t count how long until Eve arrived in a plain little sedan. He and Maria stood, and after a moment, he hugged Maria tightly. “Thank you,” he mumbled into her shoulder, then grabbed his trunk and hurried to Eve’s car. She was already getting out, and opened the boot for him, so he could tuck his trunk in carefully. When they both climbed into the car, Eve reached across and pulled Quincy into a hug of her own.

“Oh, Q,” she murmured. “What’d he do?”

Quincy laughed tiredly. “I’d rather not talk about it right now. Can we just leave?”

“Of course.”

~

Eve lived alone, but she had a flat with a spare room for when her sister came to visit. Quincy was ushered inside and led to the spare room, where Eve took his laptop and schoolbag and set them at the foot of the premade-bed. Quincy placed his trunk beside them.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” he said tiredly, running a hand through his crackling hair. “Is it alright if I stay for a few days? I have money saved; I can get my own place, but it might take a bit.”

“Of course, love, stay as long as you need to.” Eve peered into his face worriedly. Quincy felt a sudden surge of something warm and comforting—it might have been love. All he knew was that her scrutiny broke him down, and before he knew it they were sitting on the bed, his face buried in the crook of her neck, her hand sifting softly through his hair, and sobs ripping free of him despite his best efforts. Somehow, through the tears, he told her everything: how he’d told his father he wasn’t going to act anymore; how Father had surged to his feet and started shouting about how ungrateful Quincy was; how Mrs. Brown had walked in on them arguing at the top of their lungs and stated firmly that unless they shut up they were going to wake the whole block; how Father had ordered Quincy to pack and leave.

Eve made an angry sound and hugged Quincy close. “No offense, but your father is a berk,” she growled, wiping tears from Quincy’s cheeks with her thumb. She still smelled like alcohol and perfume, even in her pajamas. “You’re going to stay with me until you find your own space, and R, Joseph, Aaron, and I are going to go back to that house and fetch the rest of your things.”

“Oh—no, you don’t have to—I can do it while he’s out,” Quincy protested, but weakly; he’d be happy to never set foot in that house again.

“No. Just tell us what’s there that you want, and we’ll get it. But for now…” She sighed and began to rock him gently. He closed his eyes and almost started crying again; the sensation reminded him so much of Mother. “Let’s draw you a proper bath, and then you have to sleep. I think I still have some bathbombs left… and if not, I have bubbles.”

Quincy allowed Eve to coax him to the bathroom, where he learned that her tub was long enough to recline in, and deep enough that the water would reach just below his shoulders.

“Custom,” she explained as he blinked at it. “I take baths a lot. Yes, I have a lavender bomb left; that should help you sleep.”

It did. He nearly nodded off in the bath, but luckily caught himself. He gave in to temptation and turned on the shower to rinse his hair. All of Eve’s products were for natural hair, so Quincy used a bar of soap.

When he stepped out in a cloud of lavender-scented steam, dressed in his favorite pair of pajamas, Eve was waiting. “Do you want me to tuck you in?” she asked, only half-joking.

He cracked a thin smile, trembly as a moth’s wing. “No, thanks.”

“Good night, Quincy.”

“Good night, Eve.”

~

It took exactly twenty minutes for Rania to get Quincy to tell her what had happened. She hugged him, vowed to do all that she could to help, and asked Professor Boothroyd for extra work, for the both of them. He agreed, though he gave them a thoughtful look.

Quincy told Bill next, quietly, away from the others; and he told Bill he was dropping the class as soon as possible.

Bill just looked sad, and ran his hand over his hair. “I can’t tell you what to do,” he said finally, “But I will say that we’ll miss you. All of us.”

“I’m not leaving tomorrow,” Quincy promised uncomfortably. “I want to see who gets what part for _An Ideal Husband_.”

Bill suddenly grinned, looking ten years younger. “Good. Come on, let’s get started.”

Eve took Aaron and Joseph aside and talked to them about her plan; they immediately came to Quincy and promised to help. Quincy felt that strange warmth again; but he didn’t cry this time. He just smiled and thanked them sincerely.

The class was spent working on their improv skills. Quincy didn’t do as well with the comedy as he did with the tragedy, but he still made his classmates laugh, with his horrid puns and dry wit. It made him feel a little better.

After class, Rania came by, and she, Joseph, Aaron, Eve, and Quincy all set out together. The first three went in Joseph’s people carrier, while the last two went in Eve’s car.

Mrs. Brown opened the door when the five of them arrived, looked at them in surprise, then smiled. “I brought some things down from the attic that you might want to take with you,” she told Quincy as she stepped aside and shooed them all inside. “Your father won’t be home for another two hours.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brown,” Quincy said sincerely. “We’ll be quick.”

And they were. They cleaned out everything except the furniture and the wall decorations, and tucked it all in the boot of Joseph’s car. Maria and Mrs. Brown shooed the students out of the room so they could straighten up, and then Maria insisted on giving the little group two loaves of banana bread—“Nut-free, just in case.”

Quincy hugged both Maria and Mrs. Brown. Then they had to hurry out.

They’d barely pulled away when Father’s car appeared around the corner. Quincy stiffened, but there was no need to be frightened. Father didn’t know these vehicles. And Mrs. Brown would think up some half-truth to tell him. She was amazing like that.

When they got to Eve’s, they discovered that not all his things would fit in the guestroom; his bedroom back home was much bigger. So they had to scatter his stuff throughout the flat, which he didn’t mind. Then they feasted on fresh banana bread and champagne.

They ended up sprawled all over the living area, passing around the bottle of champagne (they were all light-weights, except Eve, who acted drunk out of respect). The five of them agreed; all in all, a job well done.

~

Two weeks later, the lineup for _An Ideal Husband_ was settled, and Quincy turned in his papers, dropping the class. He came to tell everyone personally. He didn’t expect the response.

He’d braced himself for sad looks and a few weak pleas; he was unprepared for Sam to burst into tears, Jerry to go purple in the face, and the rest to suddenly start babbling that he _couldn’t_ , he just _couldn’t_ leave. Bond was the only one who did as Quincy had predicted, and stayed out of the way, staring in a flat, unreadable way. Bill helped Quincy calm everyone down enough to say goodbye. Without any kind of spoken agreement, suddenly everyone formed a queue, and started giving Quincy hugs. He got a hug from everyone, even the people he thought didn’t like him, and then Bond was there.

Quincy eyed him doubtfully. Bond was not here for a hug.

And then, in full view of the whole class, Bond leaned in and kissed Quincy’s cheek.

It was a light peck, but it made Quincy’s cheek tingle, and he knew he was blushing from his crown to his toes. No one had kissed him in… in…

“Good riddance,” Bond said in a monotone, and walked back to his seat. That made Quincy scowl, and the blush faded. The tingle remained.

There was an awkward silence. Then Quincy took a deep breath, said, “Goodbye, everyone,” one last time, and walked out.

He went to Professor Boothroyd’s office and knocked on the door, tentatively. He had a bit of a plan, but not much, and he wanted to flesh it out with someone who was more qualified.

“Come in!”

Quincy opened the door just a little and sidled through, careful not to brush against any of the delicate instruments crowding the room. Professor Boothroyd was the coding teacher, but he was also an inventor with numerous patents. He was the closest thing to a hero Quincy had ever had.

Professor Boothroyd looked up from a stack of papers and smiled. “Ah, Quincy! How can I help you, lad?”

Quincy fiddled with his watch as he walked over to stand before Boothroyd’s desk. “I was hoping you could help me with applying to a different college.” Seeing Boothroyd’s frown, Quincy continued hastily, “It’s not that I don’t enjoy your classes, I’m learning quite a lot from them; but I want to go to a technical college.”

“I… see.” Boothroyd eyed Quincy thoughtfully, but he wasn’t frowning anymore. “Yes, you’d do incredibly well in a proper computer science course. Well, take a seat, lad. Let’s talk universities.”

~~~\0/~~~

_Two years later_

Quincy wasn’t going to school anymore.

He’d dropped out of courses all over the United Kingdom. They were too easy, all of them; he learned nothing new, found no challenges. And he refused to go back to the college his father had chosen. He applied for job after job in the tech industry, but apparently seeing “theatre” on his résumé made people balk at hiring him. Or maybe it was that he had never finished his education. Which was dog shite.

He kept in contact with his friends, especially Eve, who was getting more and more frustrated with her own classes. They weren’t allowing her to grow. The professors didn’t take her seriously. Also she stood up for herself and others, which made the professors angry. The only class she enjoyed was theatre, and that only because Bill was still the teacher. Bond had graduated, and Eve hadn’t bothered trying to keep in contact, though Joseph said Bond was working in a restaurant as a waiter. Quincy envied him.

For now, though, Quincy had returned to London. A few months ago, he’d done the unthinkable; he’d hacked a bank account and stolen hundreds of pounds. That the person he’d stolen from was a billionaire who wouldn’t even notice had nothing to do with it. Quincy had sworn off hacking when he was sixteen.

But it was oh, so easy…

He found himself doing it with increasing regularity, in between selling software and searching for other jobs. At first all he did was hack various bank accounts, to keep himself fed and in a flat that wasn’t damp and disgusting. Then he began to branch out. He hacked emails just because he could. He sent viruses to bad people. He tipped the police. He stole from corrupt rich people and gave to charities that he had hacked to make sure they were doing what they said they did. He derigged an election in some small country he couldn’t remember the name off.

…okay, so maybe that last hadn’t been so easy. He’d spent three days at his computer, subsisting on tea and biscuits, untangling webs of conspiracies, until finally he’d fixed it so it was fair again. He still checked in on that country, and was glad to hear that their new leader was as good as a politician could be.

But he began to draw attention, so he spent a month building firewalls, safeties, and traps, to protect himself. He tested himself constantly, until he had a system so perfect not even the most technologically advanced civilization on the planet could find it.

He’d never felt more alive.

But still—no one would hire him.

He needed _work_. He needed to get out of the flat. He switched from tech jobs to anything, literally anything, that could possibly give him an income; but no one seemed to want him. Frustrated, he began to take long, meandering walks around the city. He called Eve and asked if she were free for coffee, but her entire month was booked. He tried Rania; no, she had a new job with the government, she wasn’t free either. Aaron? A single father now, he had to work long hours and care for his babies. Joseph was in America and didn’t have the money for a plane ticket.

So Quincy walked, and applied, and hacked.

One day, he received an email from Eve. It said there was an opening in their production of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , and could he please come by and try for a role? Quincy was almost out of his mind with boredom, so he agreed. And the next day, he went back.

~

Bill looked exactly the same, though his hair was thinner and combed over, and his eyes were tireder. He greeted Quincy with a grin and a handshake, and said, “I cannot properly express how glad I am to see you. You’re paler, when was the last time you went outside?”

“A few days ago, actually,” Q replied, pretending to ignore the class as they drifted in and zeroed in on him. “I’m getting better, though.”

“That’s good. How many of you remember—“ Bill began, turning to the class, but he was cut off by a joyous shriek.

“QUINCY!!!” Sam cried, and hurtled forward to hug Quincy tightly. He actually cracked a smile as he hugged back; Sam hadn’t been a particular friend, but she was nice, and seemed to have sincerely missed him. “Quincy, you came back!”

“Only for this one show,” Quincy warned her, but then he was swarmed by the few others who knew him, all talking at once. All he could gather was that they were excited he was back, before Bill shooed them to their seats.

“Alright, for those of you who don’t know, this is Quincy Elmsley,” Bill introduce him. “He’s a former student, come to fill the ranks. Please be respectful.”

First they played a game, then they all practiced their parts. The open one was, unfortunately, Puck; and none of the other students wanted that role.

“Why doesn’t anyone want to be Puck?” Quincy asked, genuinely curious. “He is a main character.”

“Because Sean said he’d beat up anyone who took the part,” one nervous freshman blurted. Bill’s head whipped around, and Eve (who had come in a bit late) scowled ferociously.

“Oh did he now.” Frost seemed to accompany Bill’s words, and the ambient temperature dropped about four or five degrees. “Well then. Quincy, I believe you’ll be playing Puck. Have you got the part memorized?”

“The entire play,” Quincy confessed, forcing any nervousness from his face and voice. He didn’t know Sean, but he could guess that he was big, scary, and vicious.

“Good. Alright, everyone, let’s do a read-through first.”

Quincy thought he’d have trouble with it. He thought two years without acting would’ve thrown him off his game. But no. No, it was disturbingly easy to slip into this environment. It would be like he never left, except that now there were new faces, new voices, that he had to fit around and between and beneath. And that didn’t stop him.

After the read-through, Bill gave advice and pointers to those who needed them. Quincy couldn’t help contrasting the new kids to the old, and found them lacking. But that was because they were still learning. He shouldn’t be too harsh.

The class left him drained. Eve dragged him to a coffee shop, sat him down, and purchased enough pastries to feed three of him.

“Talk,” she demanded, shoving a croissant at him.

He picked it up and tore a piece off. “What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything.”

He looked up, surprised, to see that Eve was… tired. Her shoulders slumped, there were deep circles under her eyes, her expression was sad and sagging. He wanted to hug her. He wasn’t sure that was the right thing to do.

So he talked. He talked about what he’d seen on his travels, trying to find a good school. He talked about his teachers and classmates. He talked about what little he’d learned. He talked—complained—about not being able to find a job.

“It’s like I’m cursed,” he ended, frustrated. “Or maybe I’m not looking in the right places. I can’t tell.”

“You could always go into acting.”

Quincy glared at Eve, who smiled tiredly. “I’m not joking, and I’m not being an ass,” she said softly. “I mean it. You’d be great, on stage or in front of a camera.”

“I’d also be great in front of a computer,” he retorted, and immediately felt bad. “I’m sorry, Eve. I’m just… frustrated. What’s up with you lately?”

She stared into her cup of coffee, almost gone now. “I want to quit,” she admitted. “I can’t take how competitive everyone is. And I know that’s how it is throughout the theatre world. I’d rather… I don’t know, I’d rather join MI6 and be a spy than do a single professional gig.”

Quincy, thinking of how tough Eve was, thought she’d do very well as a spy. But not right now. Right now, she looked beaten down and exhausted. Looking closer, he spotted little details; the slight creases in her dress, the tiny stain, her face bare of even the tiny bit of makeup she preferred. Something was wrong besides school and work. But he didn’t know how to ask.

He managed a small smile. “You could be my agent,” he joked, “If I really can’t find anything else at the end of the month.”

Eve, however, seemed to give this serious thought. “I could indeed,” she murmured slowly. “My mother is, after all. She works with singers, though, not actors. But… yes. I could do it.” Then she laughed, a bright little laugh that transformed her face and posture. “Q, your _face_! You look like you bit a lemon!”

“I wish I had,” he muttered, “Instead of suggesting such a thing.” Then he sighed and relaxed a little. “How about this. I’ll intensify my search, in between rehearsals. You ask your mother for help getting into that field. And maybe—maybe—we could do it.”

Eve held out her hand, eyes twinkling, tiredness forgotten. “Shake on it,” she insisted.

Quincy grinned and shook her hand. “It’s a deal, then.”

~

 _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ was a huge success, if the clapping and cheering was to be believed. Quincy filed off the stage with the others, sighing in relief as the curtain closed. Then he remembered that there was going to be another show tomorrow, and grimaced.

“What’s got you making faces?” Sam asked, trotting over to him as he exited the dressing room, still scowling.

“I forgot we have to do it all over again tomorrow,” he answered, smiling slightly when she laughed. “You were wonderful, Sam.”

“So were you, Puck.” She nudged him with her elbow, grinning.

“No flirtations backstage!” someone jeered.

“It’s not a flirtation,” Quincy replied in their general direction, amused; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam flush, and something like hurt flitted across her face. Oh. _Oh_. Shit. But he couldn’t say anything, because he didn’t know what was right, and then Bill was there, beaming at everyone impartially.

“An excellent performance!” he applauded his students. “Now, remember to be here tomorrow, same time as today, and—“

“We know, we know,” Jessica laughed, emerging from the women’s dressing room. “You worry too much, Bill.”

“Do you remember James?” Bill riposted. “I can’t have any of you turning into the same kind of diva.”

Jessica pretended to flinch and ruined it by smiling. Several someones laughed. Quincy didn’t. He didn’t know why he didn’t find it funny.

Maybe because thinking of James Bond made him remember the intimidation, the anxiety, the tiredness, of merely being in his presence.

Sam was the only one who noticed that Quincy’s smile was fake, and put her hand on his arm. He didn’t pull away. She wrapped her hand around his bicep and just held on to him for a bit. Then Eve appeared, and Sam snatched her hand away. Eve gave her an amused look, before turning to Quincy, handing him his glasses, and saying, “Mum said she can get me in on an internship. Our master plan will have to wait.”

“Oh, good,” Quincy sighed, and smiled for real when Eve punched his arm gently. “I—“

“Excuse me,” said a cold voice, and a man in a suit shoved past their trio, actually knocking into Quincy’s shoulder and making him stumble. Sam gasped and Eve growled, but Quincy simply righted himself and put on his glasses. Bond’s intimidations had taught him how to brush such things off.

Bill turned from his conversation at that moment, and frowned a little in confusion at the man in a suit. “I’m sorry, sir, this is a private area—“ he began, but stopped when the man handed him a card. Then his face went blank and set, and he said absolutely tonelessly, “How can I help you, Mr. Simmons?”

“I’d like to speak to Quincy Elmsley,” Mr. Simmons answered in clipped tones, and checked his watch. Quincy tensed, and Sam put her hand on his arm again. “I presume he’s still here, since his father is?”

Bill looked at Mr. Simmons calculatingly. It was obvious the exact moment he decided to lie. “Sorry, Mr. Simmons. Quincy left early.” It came out smooth and believable, but Bill could never keep a lie from showing on his face. Mr. Simmons snorted, and all the actors present bristled.

Except for Jessica, who pointed at Quincy and said, “He’s over there.”

Everyone rounded on her, angered by her betrayal, but Mr. Simmons was already turning, and staring at Quincy. Quincy saw the disbelief and scorn pass over his face, and hoped that would make him leave Quincy alone—then came thoughtfulness, and recognition, and then a kind of glee that made Quincy’s stomach twist.

“Elmsley.” Mr. Simmons strode over to him and held out his hand to shake. Quincy hesitated… but was there really any point in offending this man? So he shook his hand. “I’m Troy Simmons. I’m a talent agent, and—“

“Quincy doesn’t want to be an actor,” Sam blurted.

Mr. Simmons gazed at her in surprise and irritation, before turning back to Quincy and continuing, “And your father is expressing an interest in you again, but my employers wanted to sign you first. Interested?”

“Not particularly, no,” Quincy answered.

Mr. Simmons frowned. “Why not?” he demanded, and Quincy wondered how he could ever have gotten a client if he were so demanding and brusque. “We’re the number one agency—“

“And I don’t want to be an actor,” Quincy interrupted in an overly-patient tone, to express how deeply displeased he was. “I’m only here because I was asked by a friend.”

“Simmons!” a deep voice boomed, making everyone turn. And enormously fat man was walking towards them, beaming. “Good to see you, old sport! Is this him, then?”

“Back off, Cliff,” Simmons snapped. “You’ve stolen enough of my clients.”

“What did you doctor say about that anger?” Cliff chastised gently. “I’m not here to “steal” anyone. I’m here to offer Mr. Elmsley a job.”

“No thanks,” Quincy answered that beaming smile bluntly. “As I was just telling Mr. Simmons here, I—“

“Oh no! Why do you always get here first?” An older woman in a fuchsia dress came trotting up behind Cliff, her face a mask of dismay. Her eyes glittered, though, and her posture was confident. “Hello, I was wondering if I could speak to a Mr. Quincy Elmsley?”

Quincy was beginning to feel very overwhelmed. He recognized the woman, a Miss Penelope Fisher, as an agent who had often visited his mother, trying to convince her to rejoin the theatre circuit. He had never been formally introduced to her. He also realized that Eve and Sam were flanking him, both of them holding onto him, one on each arm. Maybe they were propping him up. That was nice of them.

“I don’t want an agent, because I’m not going into acting,” he repeated, becoming truly irritated. “I’m a _technology expert_ , not an actor.”

“But your stage presence—“

“Surely you don’t mean that—“

“Look, I’m sure we can pay you more than enough—“

Eve stepped in front of him, and announced, “He’s not signing with any of you because he’s already promised to sign with me when I’m promoted.”

All three agents stared at her. She glared right back. Quincy had never loved anyone as fiercely as he did Eve in that moment.

“And now is the time when you all sod off,” Bill broke the silence cheerfully, and herded the three talent agents out of the backstage.

“Sorry, Quincy,” Jessica apologized humbly, and she did look a little sorry. “I didn’t know there’d be more than one of ‘em.”

“It’s alright,” Quincy sighed. It wasn’t, but he didn’t feel like arguing. “I’m going home. Good night, everybody.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = life, love, and happiness

**Author's Note:**

> Comments = life, love, and happiness.


End file.
